“Cathy Stevenson!” I yelled. The green door flew open with a bang and rattled the glass inset into the middle, as I burst into By the River Books. “That is who you have coming in to do the book signing next week?”
Maggie stood at the counter, mouth agape. She was a petite woman—but a mouth of a Tyrannosaurus from the South, dark brown hair, mid-forties, and dark brown eyes that hid behind a pair of black round glasses. “Just sign with your finger.” She handed the electronic pad to the customer at the counter. “Yes, Amelia, Cathy Stevenson.”
“How could you invite my archnemesis into your shop?” I gestured towards the display in the window.
She put the stack of books in a green plastic bag with the white By the River Books logo and handed it to the customer. The woman grabbed the sack and was at the door in four long and quick strides. Maggie waved to the woman as she left. “Thank you for stopping by,” Maggie called out with a cheerful customer service voice. She turned and scowled at me. “She is not your archnemesis. And I can invite whoever I want to sign books in the store. I still own this place.”
“But… Cathy?” More animated than the last time, I flailed my arms and pointed in the direction of the window display with the banner of Cathy Stevenson and her new book.
“Yes. Cathy.” Maggie came out from behind the counter and walked over to me as I stood next to the window with the oversized sign with Cathy’s oversized head, and her oversized blond hair, her oversized ego, and her oversized stuck-up look on her face with her oversized red lips. I can’t stand that color lipstick. What was the name of that shade of lipstick? Cathy-is-the-devil-in-disguise red? “Did you come in here to yell at me or was there something I can help my favorite author find?”
Humph! She tried to placate me and my temper with honey-dripped words. “I wanted to pick up a couple of books for my trip, but now… I can’t even think straight.” My ears burned. I couldn’t fall for Maggie’s sweet southern charm. Not while I seethed at the thought of Cathy-I-will-flirt-with-your-husband-and-sabatoge-your-publishing-deal Stevenson being in my favorite bookshop. I was livid.
“Romance? Cozy mystery? Something for research?” Maggie put her arm around me and led me further into the shop. Shelves hugged the walls around the room. Books lined shelves on three stories in the historic building. We stood on the main floor, which held non-fiction, local interest, new arrivals, and historic books. In the basement, there were children’s books, special interest books, and books in foreign languages. The next floor up had fiction, biographies, and another display of new arrivals. The next floor up from the fiction was out of limits to the public, as it was a private apartment. “Oh, I know what you need. How about a historical mystery?”
“As long as you’re not suggesting one of Cathy’s books.” I couldn’t stay angry with Maggie, but I wasn’t willing to lower my standards as to read one of Cathy’s books.
“Of course not. I’m going to grab a couple of books—not Cathy’s—for you. While you stand here and pout,” she said as she motioned to a table next to me, “you can sign that stack of books.” She always had a display of my books by the front of the store. I grabbed a pen from behind the counter and signed a stack of ten books by the time she got back. Pom, the bookshop’s tubby tan tabby cat, stretched and jumped down from her perch next to the window with a little grunt. She sauntered over to me; her purr vibrated my leg as she wove her body around me. I gave her a quick scratch; little tan hairs flew off her coat like a tornado. She needed a good brushing. Maybe, I would tackle that when I got back from my trip.
“Pom adores you,” Maggie said as I swiped at the stray cat hairs on my boots. “Maybe you should get a cat.”
Why did everyone think I needed a cat? I paid for my books, gave Fritz—her very adorable red Dachshund, that has never said no to an extra treat—a rub on his belly, and headed out the door. I did not forget to glare at the large poster of Cathy on my way out.
I hated driving on the I-95 in Virginia. Especially, this part of Virginia. The traffic was always congested, and it forced the memory of my husband’s death down my throat. Todd died shortly before Hannah’s thirteenth birthday, and both Hannah and I continued to mourn his death. He was running late from the office, on his way to the restaurant where we were going to celebrate his fortieth birthday. We moved many times around the world because of Todd’s work with the State Department. Finding lasting friends was difficult, so birthdays centered on our family.
That day, he had been in the office longer than he wanted, with a last-minute meeting that dragged him nearly kicking-and-screaming to the White House—at least, that is how he told it to me. The traffic on the I-95 southbound freeway out of Washington D.C. was the typical heavy sludge. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. He hated that drive but living outside of the political chaos made it worth it.
Dinner would have been just the three of us at our favorite local restaurant, Betsy’s Biscuits. Betsy made a special dinner that night for us, to include dessert of a strawberry biscuit, topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Hannah and I waited at a table near the front window, in anticipation of his arrival. I watched the traffic travel down Caroline Street from my seat. I returned a half-smile to Betsy. Another refill of our peach tea. I checked my watch again.
He was in the far-left lane, speeding up to merge into the express lane, when a car clipped his bumper and sent him barreling into the rail. The other driver was illegally speeding down the left shoulder when it had clipped Todd’s car. His car careened into the barrier, crumpled into a tangled mess, and left him nearly unrecognizable.
If the death of my husband on his birthday wasn’t bad enough for me to deal with, it got worse. The coroner ruled it a homicide, as they had found that besides the accident, someone had shot him. They never traced the odd bullet they dug out of him, nor find the hit-and-run driver. All I was told was that it was a cold case and that we might never find out who killed my husband. I couldn’t understand who would want him dead. There were no suspects. How could there be no suspects?
We were married for sixteen years, ever since my first year of college and his senior year. We met while I was in orientation, and I suppose it was love or infatuation at first sight. I spent almost half my life with him by the time he died. He had joined the foreign service shortly after he graduated. I got pregnant with Hannah and started writing travel books and blogs for whichever country they would assign him. We lived outside of Washington D.C. when I became a widow and single mother at thirty-four and was left practically alone. Thankfully, I had our friends, Beth and Hector Benedet, to help me navigate my new world living alone with a teenager.
The Virginia countryside was a wonderland, with rolling green fields and farmhouses that dotted the landscape. For a woman from the city, I never tired of seeing the green openness and simplicity of farm country. The hustle and bustle of thousands of people and vehicles rushing by in massive quantities did not exist in the farmland. The steady flow of cars, let me know there is civilization and people nearby; however, it was nothing like growing up in Los Angeles.
I tried to imagine what it would have been like during the mid-1700s, when there was conflict over the borders between the French and British forces in this quiet terrain. It was a tumultuous time in the colonial history that gave rise to George Washington. I wanted to use the trip to gain a better understanding of the locations where Washington developed his skills—to get a hands-on assessment of his early battlefields.
I arrived at my home base for the next couple of weeks, The Winchester Inn, a hotel in the historic downtown district of Winchester, Virginia. The historic site for George Washington's office was a short walk away and was on my list to visit the next day. My GPS screen on the dash of my SUV flashed a “P” to show there was parking at the hotel and the location of parking garages near the walking district. I wasn’t staying long but wanted to figure out my game plan. Checking the clock, it was too early to check-in to the hotel. I made a mental note of the parking and pulled over to plug in the address to my next destination. Taking Beth’s advice, I decided to go to Fort Ashby instead of heading directly to Fort Necessity. I typed Fort Ashby’s address into the GPS. It was just over the West Virginia border, a quick drive that should get me there within the hour.
A small, paved parking lot stretched between a log cabin and the Fort Ashby Museum. I could fit five cars and not much more in the lot. An empty lot did not seem too promising and left me with the feeling that the museum was closed. I should have checked the operating hours, but I had not thought that far ahead. This fort, or what remained of it, was not on my original itinerary, and left me unprepared. I parked my SUV, pulled my laptop and twisted charging cables out of the satchel and shoved it all under the passenger seat. I wouldn’t need them inside or while exploring the grounds.
The actual fort was long gone. Instead, a brick path led me to a concrete footprint of where the fort had once stood. It seemed small for a fort, ninety feet on each side with a bastion at each corner, at least that is what the informational sign had printed on it. Part of the back corner of the fort’s imprint was in someone’s backyard. I could understand why Captain Ashby’s wife would be discontent with having to live there in such tight quarters. How many soldiers were to be quartered here? To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect regarding the size of a mid-eighteenth-century fort on the frontier of Colonial America, but if I had to live there, I would have wanted something more spacious.
To my left stood a log cabin with a double sized chimney sticking out in the middle. It appeared to be about thirty feet square with dark brown logs and white chinking between the joints. I walked from the side around the dovetailed corner and to the front door. It was locked. I continued to make my way around to the other side of the cabin and peek in one of the windows, only to find a curtain blocked my view. Three brown, wooden doors, one on each side and one on the front, and I wasn’t sure which one I was supposed to use. Fed up, I decided that the side entrance next to the parking lot was the main door. The sign next to the door showed it was open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. “Son of a...” It was Monday and not open. I grabbed the door handle, with the hope that someone would be inside and allow me to take a quick peek around, when I noticed a coin on the ground.
The long drive caused my knees to tighten–ah, the joys of being forty–which left me with the need to use the door as a brace to bend down and pick up the coin. I felt all my forty years of life in that squat. “Find a penny and pick it up, and however else the saying goes.” I noticed that the copper coin was about an inch wide and not a penny like I had expected. One side was engraved with a man that looked like he was Roman and the words “Georgius II Rex”. “Is that King George the second?” I flipped it over. “Hello, beautiful. What’s a coin like you doing in a place like this?” I said to the coin, half expecting it to answer me. The backside of the coin sported a woman, the word “Britannia,” and the date 1754 at the bottom. I held it in my hand and would give it to one of the museum’s employees. If I could find one.
As I used the door to help heave me from my squat, the latch moved, and it slid open slightly. “Hello? Anyone here?” I called out as I pushed the door open. An icy breeze poured out of the building, swirled around, and encompassed my body, as though a blast freezer had swallowed me whole. I could smell the sweet smoke from burning cherry wood. A low humming noise drowned in my ears, blocking out all other sounds. I squinted as I raised my arm over my eyes to block out the lights. It was as though the brightness from a thousand suns concentrated in the small building. There was an overpowering urge to continue to open the door and to look inside. I’m not sure if it was my curiosity getting the best of me or something else, but I needed to get inside the building. The bright white light twisted around me. I squinted my eyes harder and struggled to see any of furnishings in the room. “Anyone here? I can't see what's going on. The light is too bright. Can you turn it off?” My eyes burned from the intensity. “Hello.” I called out to the bright chasm in front of me.
The light continued to swirl, and the humming got louder as I crept into the room. I could feel the reverberation from the humming sink into my bones. My teeth ached. Head spun around in a dizzying abyss. When I stood up quickly, my blood pressure dropped. I grasped the door handle. I had to reach out to grab something—anything—to help brace myself before I collapsed to the floor. I looked over my shoulder away from the light, towards the parking lot. There was a car parked next to mine that looked like Kyle’s car. Could anyone else see what was going on? With my other hand, that still held the coin, I grasped at my blazer that had blown open and allowed the freezing air to bite at my skin. I had regained some sense from being light-headed. My hands shook as I tried desperately to button up my blazer. The blazer only offered a little protection from the piercing cold. The door slammed shut behind me.
The bright light continued to burn my eyes. I needed to figure out where it was coming from, to turn it off. “This is so stupid. What is going on? I need to get out of here,” I said. What kind of fool was I to continue to walk into this madness? My chest heaved as I panicked. I gasped for air. The cherry wood smoke filled my nostrils. Burning sensation from the smoke traveled down into my lungs. I felt like I’d choke on the sweet scent. My vision narrowed. The bright light continued to blind me, but the world around me seemed to get dark.
Overcome with the sensation of being pulled into a tunnel and the only thing I could see was what appeared to be the burning sun at the other end, I continued into the room. It called out to me, beckoning me to come closer. The overpowering scent of cherry wood smoke continued to permeate the air around me; it was intoxicating. I reached out in front me and crept towards the light. I expected it to be warm, but it was frigid. None of what happened made any sense. My head spun. I was confused and lightheaded. The world felt unsteady under me as I swayed. The blood drained from my head and threatened me into unconsciousness. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
It all went quiet and dark.